


so, about last night

by katsumi



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Dialing, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9536711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: Bellamy is horrified to learn that, apparently, he drunk dialed Clarke the night before. This wouldn't be that big a deal, except that a) Bellamy is more than a little bit in love with her, and b) he might just be the most embarrassing drunk dialer in the world.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is complete and utter fluff and I'm not sorry.

“I have a problem,” Bellamy announces, bursting into the living room.

 

“I have a solution,” Monty says, not even bothering to look up from kicking Miller’s ass at Smash Brothers.

 

“You don’t even know what the problem is,” Miller points out, nudging Monty with his shoulder.

 

“Doesn’t matter. I bet I have the solution. What’s the problem?”

 

“Uh,” Bellamy says, swallowing. This is a lot, especially with a raging hangover. “Well, so, to preface this: I, uh, have feelings for Clarke.”

 

Neither of them even pause the game.

 

“Not platonic feelings,” Bellamy clarifies.

 

“Yeah,” says Monty, completely unfazed, “that’s not a problem.”

 

“It’s also not _news_ ,” Miller adds. “You didn’t think that was news, did you?”

 

Bellamy actually _had_ thought it was news, at least a little bit. He likes to think himself a reasonably subtle guy, and he’s never actually said those words out loud before, not even to Miller. He supposes they could have picked it up from context clues—like the fact that he once took a sick day to help her put together her new Ikea furniture, or the fact that he has a pint of rocky road in his freezer at all times just in case she’s had another shitty day.

 

But first: those are all things any good friend would do. And second: fuck this.

 

“That’s not the problem,” he says. “The problem is, I think I drunk dialed her last night.”

 

Miller pauses the game.

 

“Hey!” Monty yelps.

 

“Shush, you know you were going to win.” Miller swivels around to face Bellamy, frowning. “You think, or you know?”

 

“I know,” Bellamy says, holding out his phone to show Miller the call log. “I called her at 2:38 a.m.”

 

Miller leans forward. His eyes widen.

 

“Four minutes and thirty-eight seconds long,” he says. “Shit.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“ _Shit_.”

 

“What?” Monty asks, glancing between them. “What’s the big deal?”

 

Bellamy, unable to put to words just how much this is a _very big deal_ , just wiggles the phone vaguely in front of Monty’s nose.

 

“Calm down,” Monty says, batting his hand away. “I can read. I’m just saying, there are worse things than a drunk dial. Clarke’s not a stranger; she’ll understand.”

 

Miller lays his hand on Monty’s arm.

 

“You don’t get it,” he says, grave. “You’ve never experienced it.”

 

“Wait, have I never drunk dialed you?” Bellamy asks Monty.

 

Miller raises an eyebrow. “Why the hell would you be drunk dialing my boyfriend?”

 

“Because I like him better than you.”

 

“Wait,” Monty interjects, “you’re losing me. What’s so bad about Bellamy’s drunk dials?”

 

“I tend to be…” Bellamy starts, searching for the right words. “Less than charming.”

 

“He sings,” Miller adds, helpfully. “And sometimes cries.”

 

“No way,” says Monty, looking far too delighted. “No _way_. I want to hear that!”

 

Miller grins. “Well babe, you’ve come to the right place.”

 

* * *

 

_"Millaaaaaarrrrrrrr. Why do we call you that? Is it my fault? Were your families millers, like did they mill things? Is that why? IS IT? I think that’s probably why, and that’s nice, but you also have a first name even if I can’t remember it at this exact moment...”_

 

Monty turns to Bellamy, his smile as wide as Bellamy’s ever seen it.

 

_“WAIT I REMEMBER, IT’S NATHAN, SEE I’M A GOOD FRIEND MILLERRRTHAN._ ”

 

“Oh my god,” Monty squeaks.

 

“I can’t believe you saved this voicemail,” Bellamy grunts at Miller, who’s turning purple from trying so hard not to laugh.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m going to play this on your wedding day, man.”

 

Bellamy opens his mouth speak, but then his own voice cuts through on the phone again like some sort of horrifying, warbling nightmare bird.

 

_“Where aaaaree you anyway? Did you leave? It’s your birthday, man, you can’t leave. But I think you left because you’re not here because if you were here I would be talking to you and not calling you. Wait did you leave with MONTY? YEAHHHHH.”_

 

“Aw,” says Monty. Miller rolls his eyes.

 

_“I like Monty, man. He’s great. And you’re great. So you deserve great things because of how great you are. And don’t be a fucking dick about this, okay? I’m allowed to think you’re great because we’re friends. You dick.”_

 

“That was rude,” Miller notes. “It was my birthday.”

 

“I mean, you saved this message and are playing it four months after the fact just to embarrass him,” Monty says. “You are kind of a dick.”

 

Miller shrugs. Bellamy buries his head in his hands.

 

“ _I love you, man. If you were here I would hug you even though you hate hugs because I know you SECRETLY LOVE HUGS.”_

 

Monty grins at Miller. “Oh yeah?”

 

“Shh,” Miller says, gesturing back at the phone. “He’s about to start singing.”

 

“ _You’ve got a friend in meeeeeeee...you’ve got a friend in MEEEEEEE…”_

 

“Okay,” says Bellamy, lunging forward for the phone. “That’s enough.”

 

“ _When the road looks rough aheaaaaaaad_ …”

 

After a brief scramble during which Miller is laughing too hard to put up any kind of real fight, Bellamy swipes the phone and stops the message.

 

“Wow,” says Monty, reaching out to pat Bellamy’s knee. “That was an experience. I now understand why you don’t want Clarke to witness that.”

 

“Do you think she did?” Miller asks, trying to sneakily wipe tears from his eyes. “Do you have any memory of what you said?”

 

“No,” Bellamy groans. “That’s the thing. Raven wanted to drink to blow off steam about her shitty boss.”

 

“Oh, man, angry drinking with Raven,” Miller says, knowingly. “So you were hammered.”

 

“Beyond belief. I didn’t even realize I’d called Clarke until I looked at my phone this morning.” He pauses. “Shit, I was going to check on Jasper.”

 

“He already texted me,” says Monty, smiling. “He’s puked three times this morning.”

 

“He informs you every time he pukes?” Miller asks. “You guys are so strange.”

 

“Really? You want to have a _whose friendship is weirder_ conversation with me, after that message? _Really_?”

 

“Guys, focus,” Bellamy snaps. “I need a strategy.”

 

“For what?” Miller asks. “You already called her. It’s out there. You can’t exactly take it back.”

 

Bellamy looks from him to Monty, helplessly. Monty shrugs.

 

“He’s right. If you’d sent an email you wish you hadn’t, I might have something to work with. But I can’t go back in time and make it so you didn’t call her, Bellamy. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

 

“You said you had the solution to my problem,” Bellamy says, dropping his head back into his hands.

 

“I mean, in this case I think the solution is: go talk to Clarke, figure out whether you said anything embarrassing, and apologize for it if you did.”

 

“Or,” Miller interjects, “pretend it never happened and maybe she’ll never mention it.”

 

Monty rolls his eyes. “That’s dumb. Don’t listen to him.”

 

“Hey,” Miller gripes.

 

“Bellamy,” Monty continues, “you talked with her for _four minutes_. You really think you didn’t say something she’s going to want to comment on?”

 

Even Miller looks sympathetic. “Yeah, you do tend to be pretty honest when you drunk dial, man. Chances are, you said something you’re going to have to explain.”

 

Of course they’re right. And what with the effort it takes on a day to day basis not to let on that he has feelings for her, chances are high that he completely spilled his guts. Which sucks.

 

It’s not like he wasn’t going to ever tell her. He only fully realized it himself just a few months ago, but since then, it’s been a matter of time before it burbled out of him.

 

But still, he’d really have rather done it sober. And been able to remember if he’d done it at all. And know how she responded.

 

Monty pats his shoulder.

 

“Sorry, Bellamy.” A pause. “What song do you think you went with?”

 

Bellamy groans into his hands.

 

* * *

 

He takes a shower to distract himself, which more or less works. By the time he’s dressed, toweling off his still-damp hair, he’s got a bit of a clearer head, and—foolishly—even something a little like hope flickering in his chest.

 

And then he checks his phone.

 

“Guys!” he shouts, flinging the door to his room open so fast it slams into the wall. Miller jumps. “I have another problem!”

 

“You _just had_ a problem,” Miller growls.

 

Monty, thoroughly unphased, still doesn’t look up from the screen. “It’s fine. I bet I have another solution.”

 

“You didn’t have a solution to the first problem,” Bellamy points out, moving to stand in front of the television and block their view. They can play video games later; this is an _emergency_.

 

Monty pouts.

 

“Just because you didn’t like my solution doesn’t mean I didn’t have a solution,” he grumbles. But he dutifully pauses the game. “So? What is it?”

 

“Clarke texted me.”

 

Without waiting for a response, he shoves his phone under Monty’s nose.

 

**Clarke Griffin (10:32 a.m.)  
** What the hell was that?

 

Monty leans forward, frowning. “What the hell was that?”

 

“Was what?” Miller asks.

 

“No,” Monty says, “I was reading the text. That’s what it said. Just, ‘What the hell was that?’”

 

Miller glances at Bellamy. “Oh. Well, that’s probably not good.”

 

“Not at all,” Bellamy growls, biting his lip. “Fuck, guys. I can’t tell if she’s joking. What the fuck did I say to get that reaction?”

 

“Let’s think about this logically,” says Monty, like the beacon of reason and light his friends’ stupidity often forces him to be. “Clarke’s a nice person. If you said something emotionally vulnerable, I highly doubt this is how she would react.”

 

“Or,” Miller adds, “even Bellamy’s drunk self was too scared to tell her, and he wound up deflecting by saying something insulting instead.”

 

Bellamy’s entire body sags. “Oh god, you think?”

 

Monty glares at Miller. “That’s not helpful.”

 

“It’s true, though.”

 

“It _is_ true,” says Bellamy, running a hand through his hair. “Shit. _Fuck_.”

 

“You have to talk to her,” Monty says, using what Bellamy recognizes as his _talking friends off the ledge_ voice. “We can speculate all we want, but you’re never going to know for sure unless you talk to her.”

 

“True,” says Miller. “Go talk to her. Just keep the singing and the insulting to a minimum.”

 

Monty elbows him in the rib.

 

“What he means is, good luck!” Monty says, smiling.

 

Miller shrugs. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

 

Bellamy knows that Miller is essentially self-imposed captain of the Bellamy Blake Cheer Squad, and that he genuinely cares about Bellamy’s happiness more than he cares about most things, even if he is very bad at showing it.

 

He knows this, but he still gives Miller the finger before heading for the door. Just on principle.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until he gets to Clarke’s door that he realizes: he probably should have given her a heads up before just barging over. She could easily be mad at him for...well, whatever the hell it was he said.

 

(What the hell _did_ he say?)

 

It’s too late now, though, because the door swings open before he even gets a chance to knock.

 

“Oh!” says Wells, whose face is suddenly _right there_. “Bellamy. Hi.”

 

“Hi,” Bellamy manages, startled.

 

From somewhere in the apartment, he hears Raven shout: “Remember to get the blue kind! The yellow kind tastes like pee!”

 

“Uh,” says Wells, scratching the back of his head, “I’m off to the store to get Raven some Gatorade.”

 

“Ah. Hangover?”

 

“Yeah.” Wells smiles, stepping aside to make room for Bellamy. “You here for her or for Clarke?”

 

“Clarke,” says Bellamy, walking in. “If she’s here.”

 

“In her room,” Wells says. “Need me to pick you up anything while I’m out?”

 

“No, man,” Bellamy laughs; Wells is too kind for his own good. “I’m set, thanks.”

 

To get to Clarke’s room, Bellamy has to walk through the living room, and that’s where he finds Raven. She’s lying on her back on the floor, her feet stretched up against the wall, eyes closed.

 

“Rough night?” Bellamy asks.

 

“Fuck you too, Blake.”

 

“If it makes you feel better, my head feels like someone’s trying to machete it.”

 

“That helps, actually.”

 

“Oh, and Jasper’s alive. Puking, but alive.”

 

Eyes still closed, Raven grins. “Good boy.”

 

“Is Clarke…” Bellamy starts.

 

“In her room. Though be warned: she’s grumpy today.”

 

Bellamy pauses. “Yeah? Any idea why?”

 

“Beats the shit out of me.”

 

So Bellamy knocks on Clarke’s door with a pit in his stomach, cold dread snaking down his spine.

 

She’s sitting on her bed, hair piled into an unruly bun, sketchpad on her knees. She’s frowning down at the pages—and shit, she _does_ look grumpy—but she smiles when she sees him, which is at least something.

 

“Hey,” she says, waving him in. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Just out for a mid-morning stroll to try to convince my body it’s alive,” he deadpans, closing the door behind him. “Remind me never to drink tequila ever again.”

 

She laughs. “Do you need Gatorade? Wells just left for the store. I'm sure he'd grab you some.”

 

“I'm fine. Why is Wells getting anyone Gatorade? He doesn't live here.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. "He came over because he promised he’d take a look at my taxes. Then he saw Raven on the floor and forgot all about me."

 

"Ah. You probably should have guessed that would happen.”

 

She scowls. “He is weak and easily distracted.” She gestures to the foot of her bed. “Want to sit?”

 

“No,” Bellamy says, purely on instinct, like his body is telling him he needs to be prepared to flee at a moment’s notice. “I’ll stand.”

 

She cocks her head at him. “Uh, okay. What’s up?”

 

He swallows. Shit.

 

“I don’t remember what I said last night,” he says, fast. “I know I called you, but I don’t remember what I said. I’m really sorry.”

 

She bites her lip, confused, and he realizes with a jolt that if he _did_ spill his guts, maybe that’s what she thinks he’s apologizing for.

 

“It’s not—okay, here’s the thing, if I said...I’m sorry it came out that way,” he continues. “I didn’t mean to tell you like that. And I didn’t mean to put you in a weird position, or make you in any way uncomfortable.”

 

She frowns, opens her mouth to speak.

 

“But I think I did make you uncomfortable,” he says, cutting her off; his heart is hammering against his ribs. “And so, yeah, I’m sorry. Not about the sentiment, just, err, the way it was expressed.”

 

There’s a long pause.

 

“I thought you didn’t remember what you said?” she asks, carefully.

 

He sighs. “I don’t. But honestly, Clarke, it’s not hard to guess.”

 

She considers him for a moment, and he just stands there, stupidly. His fingers feel numb.

 

Then, very slowly, she puts her sketchbook aside and swings her legs over the side of the bed. She pushes herself up and steps towards him, stopping just a few inches away, closer than he’d expected. He’s almost tempted to shift back, to give her more room. There’s something he can’t quite read on her face, something guarded.

 

She gives him a quick, soft smile. “You didn’t say anything, Bellamy.”

 

Well, that isn’t what he expected from her at all.

 

“Huh?”

 

“It was a butt dial,” she explains. “It was four and a half minutes of weird scratching noises and you muttering offhand comments about not being able to see in the dark. I think you may have brushed your teeth.”

 

“Oh,” Bellamy breathes. “That’s...okay. You’re sure?”

 

“I’m sure. I listened to the whole thing.”

 

“Why would you listen to four and a half minutes of that?”

 

She shrugs, and if Bellamy’s not mistaken, she seems almost self-conscious, a little on edge.

 

“I may have been waiting,” she admits.

 

His breath catches. “For what?”

 

“To see if you’d say anything.” She smiles, hesitant. “I was curious. If you drunk dialed me...I was curious what you’d say.”

 

It’s very possible that he’s reading this wrong. But she’s standing just a hair away, smiling up at him, and this is probably as good an opportunity as he’s ever going to get.

 

“If I’d drunk dialed you,” he says, somehow managing to keep his voice even, “I probably would have told you that I like you. A lot. As a friend, of course, but also…”

 

“Not?” she supplies.

 

“Yeah. Also not.”

 

Her smile widens, and then all of a sudden her fingers are curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and she’s tugging him forward, so that his face is more level with hers.

 

“Good,” she laughs. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

 

He’s still processing those words when she kisses him, so there’s this embarrassing beat where he just kind of stands there, frozen in shock. But then he manages to kick into gear, wrapping his arms around her as he pulls her in, kissing her deeper.

 

When he pulls back—he has so many questions, the first of which being a very important _are you serious about this holy fuck_ —she makes this little breathy noise and he can’t help but lean in and start kissing her all over again.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy would be perfectly content to make out on Clarke’s bed for the entire weekend. But after a while, they both realize they haven’t eaten anything all day, so they’re forced to get up and find sustenance.

 

When Bellamy opens the door to Clarke’s room, Monty is sitting cross legged on Clarke and Raven’s couch, a laptop resting on his knees.

 

Bellamy blinks. “The hell?”

 

“Do you have another problem?” Monty asks, grinning.

 

“What, are you like my personal genie? What are you doing here?”

 

“I followed you,” Monty says, dry. “That’s how I spend my free time. Or, you know, Raven and I were going to work on that coding project. That’s also a reasonable explanation. Hey, Clarke.”

 

“Hey,” Clarke says, shuffling past Bellamy towards the kitchen. Bellamy glances to Monty, wondering if he should give some sort of explanation for why he’s been in Clarke’s room for the past two hours, but Monty just turns back to his screen like this is all perfectly normal.

 

“Where _is_ Raven?” Clarke asks, opening the fridge.

 

“Wells is trying to feed her,” says Monty. “Because apparently, you guys have no food.”

 

“Hey Bellamy,” Clarke calls, “we have no food.”

 

Monty sticks his index finger in the air to punctuate the point.

 

“We can go out,” Bellamy shrugs. “I’m not picky. The diner?”

 

“No way,” Monty says, laughing. “You can’t go to the diner on your first date.”

 

Bellamy’s just about to counter that it’s not a date—they haven’t talked about that stuff yet; could Monty just _be cool_?—when Clarke wanders back over.

 

“I kind of like it,” she says, digging into her purse for her keys. “Sets the bar real low. We’ll only get better with time.”

 

Monty closes his laptop. “You know what would set the bar even lower? If I crashed your date.” Bellamy looks at him, and Monty shrugs. “What? I’m hungry.”

 

And honestly, Bellamy doesn’t even care. Not only has Clarke proven willing—even eager—to make out with him, but now it seems he’s going to be able to transition into this new whatever this is without it being a big deal. He’d never in his wildest dreams imagined it could go this smoothly. A part of him is still convinced he’s dreaming this.

 

“Sure,” he says. “Why not. Let’s go.”

 

Then, on their way the door, Monty leans into Clarke with this suspiciously wide grin.

 

“I’ve gotta ask,” he says. “What song did he sing?”

 

“Song?” Clarke asks.

 

“On the drunk dial.”

 

“Oh, it was a butt dial. So, no singing.” She stops. “Wait. _Singing_?”

 

Monty grabs her arm, his smile positively gleeful. “Oh, Clarke. I have some very exciting news to share with you.”

 

On second thought, maybe this won’t go so smoothly after all.


End file.
